


An Uninvited Guest

by lady_needless_litany



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, CAOS S1, Crossover, Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:43:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/pseuds/lady_needless_litany
Summary: In her attempt to sway Sabrina into signing the Book of the Beast, Lilith seeks out Crowley’s help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've just kind of smooshed the worlds of GO and CAOS together... in general, assume that this takes place somewhere during season 1 of CAOS and that the plot of GO isn't happening.

The dusty quiet of Aziraphale’s bookshop, set against the muffled backdrop of London’s traffic, was split by tinkle of a bell. From his position seated behind the till, reading, he looked up. The bell heralded the arrival of a visitor, usually Crowley—except Crowley was in the backroom, perusing an newly-acquired Victorian copy of _Doctor Faustus._

Instead, it was a woman that stepped through the door.

She was regal, poised, and supremely self-confident. Dark, lustrous hair. Stylish clothing. Aziraphale wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was a little intimidated and didn’t say a word, though he distantly felt that he should recognise her; in return, she didn’t spare as much as a glance in his direction.

She spent a few minutes browsing the shelves directly opposite the front door. They were old, leather-bound volumes—not Aziraphale’s most treasured, which were carefully tucked away in a separate room, but precious nonetheless. At one point, she pulled a book out and idly flipped through it.

That was enough to kick Aziraphale’s brain into gear. “Can I help you?”

She turned, fixing him with a piercing stare. “No.”

_How rude._

His umbrage was short-lived. Looking at her face-to-face, Aziraphale though he detected something strange, something supernatural, about her. A witch, perhaps. No, it had to be more than that—the presence of a witch wasn’t discomforting in the way that this woman’s was.

“Excuse me. Have we met?” he enquired, still unsettled. “I can’t help feeling that you look familiar.”

The woman flicked her eyes up and down, surveying him. “No. We haven’t.”

“In that case, might I ask your name?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Besides, who are you?”

“This is my bookshop!” Aziraphale said, indignant. He shot to his feet. “I-”

“Ah.” Crowley said, emerging from the back room, summoned by Aziraphale’s raised voice. He immediately registered the woman’s presence. “Wonderful.”

His tone suggested that the occurrence was not, in fact, wonderful; it was the kind of voice one used when attempting to deal with a persistently annoying child without losing one’s temper.

Aziraphale whipped his head around. “Crowley, do you know…” he began. He didn’t finish the sentence, inhibited by his characteristic awkwardness.

“Yes, angel, I do,” Crowley replied, just short of a sigh. He leant against the till counter, gesturing vaguely in the woman’s direction. “Aziraphale, this is Lilith. Or Madam Satan, depending on what day of the week it is.”

“Enchanté,” Aziraphale managed. He flopped back onto his stool. “May I ask what you’re doing in my bookshop?”

Lilith ignored him. Instead, she directed her next words to Crowley. “I see you’ve gotten attached. Is that why you’ve been keeping your distance?”

He rolled his eyes. “Hell’s depressing. That’s why I keep my distance.”

A tilt of the head, a raise of one eyebrow. Minorly offended. “Depressing?”

“The hellfire and brimstone. Gets a bit much, after a while,” Crowley replied. “Anyway, I hear you’ve become quite attached to a certain coven of witches in America. Greendale, is it?”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “Your absence has been noted,” she said coolly. “It reflects poorly on you. On all of us.”

“Glass houses, Madam, glass houses.” Crowley deliberately drew out his esses, giving the sentence a menacing edge.

Naturally, Lilith was unthreatened. “Careful, _Crawly._ ”

His face grew stony at the use of the name, his hate for it undiminished by the intervening millenia. “Surely you’ve not come all this way to scold me.”

Her jaw tightened. Whatever her business was, it was galling her.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, tossing her hair. “I haven’t. I require your assistance.”

Although Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, he knew the demon was rolling his eyes. He laughed darkly. “I doubt that. Why would the Mother of Demons needs help from _me_?”

Lilith bristled. It was clear that it had cost her pride to admit it, let alone reiterate it. “You’re ‘Hell’s most approachable demon’, are you not?”

“That’s usually an insult coming from your mouth,” he said bitterly, recalling the day she’d minted the epithet, centuries ago.

“Desperate times, desperate measures.” Her voice had returned to its even keel. “There’s a girl—a witch. Sabrina Spellman. She’s having doubts.”

He played dumb, just to see the fury glitter in her eyes. “About what?”

She visibly suppressed a hiss. “Signing the Book of the Beast.”

“She’s a witch. Witches don’t _have_ to draw their power directly from the Dark Lord. Many don’t.”

“The Spellman’s are part of the Greendale coven, part of the Church of Night. They have to sign. That’s their deal.” Lilith said. “Besides, He requires it. My presence in Greendale is not a holiday.”

“He requires one specific witch to sign it?” Crowley raised both eyebrows, exaggeratedly expressing his shock. “Must be a special person.”

“That’s irrelevant. You just need to convince her. As a more… benign representative of Hell.”

He considered it for a long moment, tapping one finger against his chin. He was only an arm-length away from Aziraphale, who wanted to reach out and tell him to refuse—not just because of his heavenly duties. He simply didn’t trust Lilith. Even without her formidable reputation, her threatening aura was enough. Malevolence radiated from her.

After a moment of deliberation, his response was decisive. “No.”

She blinked rapidly, a movement that was accentuated by her dark eyelashes. Slowly, dangerously, she asked, "Excuse me?"

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets. "No."

Her mouth twisted. Expectantly, she waited.

Her silence had the intended effect: it pushed Crowley into talking. "That's not my job. Witches, recruitment, that's not my shtick."

"You're a demon," Lilith said, enunciating every word. She looked at him like he was utterly dense; to be fair, he wasn't doing much to prove otherwise. "Of course it's your job."

"No, it's - look, I don't even report to you!" Crowley exclaimed, flustered. It was a lame excuse and they all knew it.

"If you can deign to follow Hastur and Ligur's orders," she said, disdain dripping from every syllable. "You can damn well obey me."

There was nothing much Crowley could think of to say to that, a fact that was infinitely clear in the way he started shifting from one foot to the other. Seeing his discomfort, Aziraphale's intrinsic empathy began to kick in.

"Hang on," he said, doing his best to intervene. He was still sitting behind the counter, a position that felt mildly ridiculous, so he pushed himself to his feet. "Crowley's right. Witches aren't his thing. Anyway, if he says 'no', then it's a 'no'. It's as simple as that."

Lilith looked between them with a new understanding—or so it seemed. Aziraphale wasn't quite sure what understanding she’d come to, nor did he particularly care in that moment, but she certainly seemed to be looked at the pair of them differently. It was as if she were toying with them, a cat with a ball of wool.

“Alternatively,” she said, voice taking on a dangerously saccarchine twist. “You do me a favour—all in His name, of course—and I turn a blind eye to your… arrangement.”

There was no doubt over what she was referring to, but Crowley, instinctively afraid of the potential ramifications, tried to act innocent. “What ‘arrangement’?”

“Don’t try that with me, dear, it’s crystal clear. You’re practically _cohabiting._ ” She spat the last word out with no small measure of contempt. There was no hiding, then.

“Fine,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “But that’s it. I’ll talk to the witch. Nothing else.”

“No, that will do. Just get it done and don’t beat around the bush.”

Crowley didn’t reply, leaving a loaded silence.

Eventually, he spoke. “Unless there’s anything else, you may as well leave. This isn’t a social call.”

She crossed her arms, tutting. “Such poor manners. I expect better from a demon.”

“You heard him,” Aziraphale said suddenly, even surprising himself. “Please leave.”

She regarded him with derision. “Angels. I’d forgotten how much I hated them,” she mused aloud.

Aziraphale’s cheeks grew hot. He opened his mouth to respond, but Crowley beat him to it. “That’s enough.”

For the first time since she’d walked into the shop, she smiled, all teeth and scarlet lipstick. It conjured unsavoury images of fangs and venom. “I suppose you’re right. I really ought to be going.”

She pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket, holding it out to Crowley. Reluctantly, he took it.

“It was wonderful to see you,” she said, voice laden with sarcasm. “I’m so glad that we could come to a compromise.”

With that, she vanished.

In her wake, there was an odd lull—like a marionette with its strings cut. Indeed, they both released tense breaths, shoulders slumping.

Aziraphale moved from behind the counter. “I think that’s quite enough for one day,” he said, turning the sign on the door to ‘closed’. “She really was horrible.”

Crowley visibly marshalled himself. “That’s just who she is.”

“Yes, but you’re a demon and you’re nowhere near as-” he floundered, searching for a word, while Crowley watched him with growing amusement. “-awful.”

“Makes you glad that you’ve got me, doesn’t it?”

He'd never admit the flutter that gave him. “Mm-hm.”

"Does she normally order you around like that?"

"Only a couple of times per millenium," he replied flippantly. "It's not just me. She likes to remind us all who's boss."

"I see."

To Crowley's ears, there was something a bit off in that response. If he had to hazard a guess, Aziraphale seemed almost… jealous. Crowley removed his glasses. “Are you alright, angel?”

“I need a drink,” Aziraphale exhaled. “A dram of single malt, I think.”

Crowley looked mildly alarmed. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Oh, what does that matter? What’s the point in being able to snap your fingers and get rid of a hangover if you never get hungover in the first place?”

Crowley had to admit that he had a point. In silence, he followed Aziraphale into the back room, a cozy space lined with cupboards and bookshelves and housing an assortment of tables, chairs, and sofas.

Crouching, Aziraphale pulled open a small cupboard, extracting two snifters and a dark bottle. With a mutter, he cleared the glass of dust—it was clear that the cupboard hadn’t been opened in a long while.

Crowley tilted his head. “What _is_ that stuff?”

“Macallan 1926.”

“Why don’t we drink that more often? Puts your Chiantis and your Cabernets to shame.”

He deposited his paraphernalia on a table. “The whisky doesn’t seem very angelic, somehow. Besides, it’s rather expensive.”

Watching as he set about opening the bottle and pouring it, Crowley wrinkled his nose. “That’s not exactly a problem when you’re an angel, is it? Or a demon.”

“Magically replicating it just isn’t the same, trust me.”

“Look, can we just get on with drinking it?”

“Yes, indeed.” Aziraphale handed him a snifter. “To ineffability.”

“To ineffability,” Crowley echoed, clinking their glasses together.

* * *

Crowley awoke with a start, largely due to the painful crick in his neck. He found himself slumped in an armchair; opposite him, Aziraphale was stretched out on a sofa. To one side was a table, with the now half-empty bottle of whisky standing on it.

He dismissed his hangover and started properly scraping his mind together. He heaved himself up, casting a fond look at his still-snoring friend, and made his way through to the shop. It was a Thursday morning, but it was still early—the light was still gentle, softly illuminating the room.

A flash of colour caught his eye, jolting him out of his drowsiness. On the counter was a crisp, white envelope. It was written in sharp, angular handwriting:

_Sabrina Spellman_

_Spellman Sisters' Mortuary_

_Greendale_

_United States of America_

Nothing that Crowley couldn’t have found out himself. Lilith had left it there purposely. It was supposed to serve as a reminder.

He sighed. _This is not going to be fun._


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley had never been a very good demon. He lacked the prerequisite, well, murderiness. It just wasn't in his nature. Pettiness and mild spite were about as evil as it got.

In short, he really wasn't the best option for recruitment. Privately, he thought that if Lilith had resorted to him, then the situation must be dire; it wasn't a thought that enthused him.  That was fairly clear to Aziraphale, who had surfaced about ten minutes after Crowley had found the note and who was trying his hardest to change Crowley's mind.

"Are you quite sure this is a good idea?" he queried. Even by Aziraphale standards, he sounded worried.

Crowley released a short, barking laugh. "No. But I don't have much choice."

"Surely…" Aziraphale searched for an answer, but he came up blank.

"There's nothing I can do about this," he said, trying to ignore the dread kindling in his stomach. "You can't just ignore Lilith."

"Isn't there some way that you can get out of this? Can you call in a favour or something?"

He shook his head. "Not that I can think of."

"But don't you and Lilith… know each other? From - you know?" Aziraphale skirted the details, knowing that Crowley wasn't fond of the memories. Neither was he, in all honesty.

Therein lay the problem. You'd be hard pressed to find a demon with a typical, straightforward history, but Crowley somehow managed to be an atypical demon. He'd been there at the start, when Lucifer Morningstar had fallen and hadn't yet risen to King of Hell. He'd been at the Garden. Yes, Lilith was the Mother of Demons, but, in a way, Crowley had helped to create her. Indirectly, she commanded him. At the same time, she owed him.

Of course, he was sure that she didn't see it that way. Lilith had never struggled with a lack of figurative scotoma.  _ The mind sees what it chooses to see _ , Crowley thought to himself wryly. He considered  _ The Da Vinci Code  _ one of his greatest achievements - Aziraphale was still complaining about its lack of accuracy.

"It's complicated," Crowley replied, settling for the simplest answer he could find. "Anyway, maybe it won't be so bad. It's only one witch, how hard can it be?"

He stopped talking when he realised exactly how dubious Aziraphale looked. His expression reflected his own lack of conviction. "Angel, why do you look so disapproving?"

"It's just-" Aziraphale was chewing his lip. "Well, as an angel, I can't let you corrupt someone."

He rolled his eyes. "As a demon-"

"As a friend," he continued, simply. "I think I should go with you."

That halted Crowley rather abruptly. "What?"

With surprising determination, Aziraphale repeated himself. "I said, I think I should go with you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, all canon has been well and truly thrown out of the window.

To a stranger's eye, Baxter High was an imposing-looking place. It was all hard lines and red brick and sharp white windows. The weather didn't help - it was overcast, lending the mid-morning light a grey tint. It was also winter, so the trees were bare and the wind had a cold bite.

Aziraphale pulled his coat around him. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"That makes two of us," Crowley muttered. The task seemed simple enough, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it would prove more complicated than expected. Besides, he really wasn't Hell's most inspiring recruiter. Especially considering that he had an angel in tow.

Said angel was growing less certain by the minute. "Are we sure she's going to be here?"

"Unless she's homeschooled, she must be. Anyway, other option is knocking on her door, where we'd definitely be on the back foot."

They passed through the school's main doors, into a foyer that was utterly deserted. Crowley cast an eye over the walls, bedecked with posters, and the trophy cabinets, despairingly looking for some hint of what to do next.

"We could pretend we're from Ofsted?" Aziraphale offered tentatively. 

"Wrong country, angel."

"Or maybe we should wait until the students are out of class. We could ask around then."

"Maybe." Crowley sounded unconvinced, but had yet to produce a better idea. "Although-"

_Click, clack._ The sound of a pair of stilettos echoed down the hallway. It was the kind of noise that was accompanied by a deep sense of foreboding.

At the end of the corridor, a woman appeared: assured, collected, manicured. She looked a little different, but was instantly recognisable.

" _Lilith?_ " Crowley said, incredulous. "What-"

As Lilith caught sight of the pair, she scowled. "Unbelievable."

She continued walking, making a direct beeline towards them.

"This doesn't feel great," Aziraphale said, hushed.

"Yep," he whispered back. More audibly, he addressed Lilith as she stopped in front of them. "’Morning, Lilith."

She pursed her lips. "First things first, it's Mrs. Wardwell to you."

"Hold on-" Crowley started, indignant. Lilith, in true form, ignored him.

"And we need to talk. Not here." She turned to Aziraphale, reeling off a short alphanumeric classroom code. "It's that way. Tell them you're a visiting literature expert and stay out of the way."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but Lilith's chilling glare was enough to stop him. With a despairing glance at Crowley, he trudged in the direction that she had indicated.

Crowley, meanwhile, found himself shepherded into an empty classroom, a tired and battered little space. Behind them, the door banged shut loudly enough to make him wince.

Lilith was a believer in both action and intimidation. She seized one of his arms, propelling him into a wall; his shoulders hit the brick with enough force to bruise.

Naturally, that didn’t stop him talking. "Are you _undercover_?"

She rolled her eyes. "You didn't think everyone in Greendale knew who I was, surely?"

"They're witches! They're on the same side as you! As us," he corrected hurriedly.

"That means nothing. The Dark Lord sent me here to do his bidding, not to make friends," she hissed. "Sabrina _cannot_ know who I am. It would derail everything."

"What, exactly, is 'everything'? This isn't your style. All this sneaking around, pretending to be mortal."

"That's none of your concern. Just do your job." Lilith's gaze were intense; in that moment, Crowley would have sworn she could read his mind. "She must sign the Book of the Beast. That is the Dark Lord's will. And she cannot, under any circumstances, know that I sent you. Understand?"

_The Dark Lord's will. Directly. Unusual,_ Crowley mused. "Fine. You could've warned me in advance, though."

"I thought you'd be smart enough to work that out for yourself. Now, I'm not so sure."

Crowley remained silent, rather unwilling to be strangled or discorporated. Both, unfortunately, were well within the realms of possibility in that moment.

Partially placated by his passive acquiescence, she stepped back. "Don't screw this up, Crowley. That includes keeping the angel out of the way. Or I'll do it myself."

"I get it. I'll do it."

She gave him one more disparaging look before pushing the door open and leaving. As the door swung closed again, he gave a deep sigh. Relief, perhaps, and dread. He paused, closing his eyes. Then he peeled himself off the wall and, reluctantly, headed back out.

With Lilith's threats ringing in his ears, Crowley traipsed down the corridor. He was growing more and more antipathetic by the second. _Aziraphale's right_ , he told himself grouchily. _This is a terrible idea._

And it was. But what could he do? Lilith was a touch more petrifying that Hastur and Ligur, and she couldn't be fobbed off with a few hyperbolic memos, unlike Hell's middle management.

With Aziraphale tucked away in some obscure classroom, he was quite alone. Utterly blindsided. At a complete loss. Chronically unsuccessful, too.

He spent the best part of two hours lurking. When the bell rang - a horrible metallic screech, in his opinion - he skulked in the background, staying away from the chattering hordes of students. He did slip into the school's office and covertly peruse a yearbook, which meant that his target now had a face, at least. Still, by the time lunch had arrived, he was no closer to locating Sabrina Spellman.

Crowley, needless to say, wasn't impressed.

By the time lunch finally rolled around, he was loitering opposite the staffroom, desperately hoping that his counterpart would eventually appear.

He did, thankfully. Somehow, Aziraphale had already bumbled into the staff's good graces; when he walked up, he was deep in conversation with a scruffily-dressed teacher. The pair were all smiles and expressive gestures, a sight which partially alleviated Crowley's aggravation. Aziraphale waved his companion forward, into the staffroom, and crossed to where he was standing.

Together, they stepped into the nearest alcove they could find. Aziraphale's face had turned anxious again. "Did you get a chance to speak to the girl?"

"No," Crowley replied flatly. "Although I now know who she is. I hope your morning has been more productive than mine."

A little disheartened, Aziraphale soldiered on anyway. "It was quite wonderful. I do love _Much Ado About Nothing_."

"Oh, I always preferred _Macbeth_." Crowley scuffed his shoe along the ground. "Shakespeare was one of ours, you know."

Aziraphale pointedly ignored him. Shakespeare had always been a touchy subject for the two of them. "The students were - well, I suppose they're teenagers."

"Demons, then."

He tutted. "There's no need to be so crass."

"Focus. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go home."

They conferred, bickering and scheming, and went their separate ways. In all honesty, neither of them were significantly more optimistic. But there was nothing normal or routine about this, despite its benign and frustrating exterior. And there were times when six thousand years of experience had its limits.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not a flattering portrayal of Sabrina, in all honesty. That wasn't intentional, but apologies nonetheless.

Three o'clock found Crowley lounging against a wall, opposite Lilith's - Mrs. Wardwell's - classroom. She hadn't seen him. Blessedly, he hadn't come face-to-face with her throughout the rest of the day, and he had no desire nor intention to alter that.

From what he'd gleaned through the window, she was teaching History, having spent the last hour showing a documentary on medieval European torture. According to Crowley’s own recollections, the programme had managed to be both santised and fantastically graphic, leaving more than one student a little green around the gills. Amongst her class was Sabrina Spellman, distinguishable by her bright blonde hair. Crowley recognised her from the yearbook he’d leafed through earlier.

Lilith dismissed her students a few moments after the bell that signified the day's end. Sabrina dawdled, talking to Lilith. She was the last to leave the room.

When she exited, Crowley raised his voice. "Are you Sabrina Spellman?"

She turned sharply. Instinctively, one hand went to her school bag; Crowley presumed she was reaching for a spellbook. Or perhaps pepper spray. "Yes."

"I'm Anthony J. Crowley," he said, feeling, as he always did, a touch idiotic for using his full name. "Before you ask: yes, I'm a demon."

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"There's no need to be like that," he chided, lifting his chin. "I just want to talk."

"About what?"

Crowley looked around, assessing the straggling students that were still within earshot. "Best not to talk here."

"Sure." Sabrina smiled tightly. "This way."

She walked beside him, just out of arm's reach - never ahead, where she might lose sight of him and allow herself to become vulnerable. _Clever girl_ , Crowley admitted to himself.

At that time of day, the library was deserted. He could understand why she'd picked it: it was private and it was unlikely that they would be intruded upon, but it was also spacious and had plenty of exits. It seemed that she had good survival instincts.

Such thoughts disappeared as soon as Sabrina stopped, suddenly pivoting, and confronted him. "Give me one reason that I shouldn't banish you, here and now."

"Well," he said. It was a question that he’d expected. "Firstly, I wouldn't recommend trying. I'm tougher than I look."

He hoped that came across more intimidating than he felt. No one had ever tried to banish him. Not a real witch, at any rate. "Secondly," he continued. "I might have something interesting to say."

"I doubt it," she fired back.

Crowley resisted the virulent temptation to roll his eyes. “We’re on the same side, you know. Same Dark Lord and all that.”

She crossed her arms. “No, we’re not. I still haven’t signed the Book."

_Aha. Now we're getting somewhere._ "Exactly."

"That's what you're here for? Me, not signing the Book?" Sabrina retorted, voice rising. "Did my aunties send you? Or Father Blackwood? Or-"

"Are you always this abrasive?" Crowley interrupted.

She paused, chewing her lip. She looked, Crowley thought, a little abashed, which gave him no small measure of satisfaction. "No."

"Well, that's a relief."

It seemed that her chagrin was short-lived. At his snide comment, she turned snappy once more. "What do you really want?"

"To discuss your options."

"Why do you care?"

"I don't. One of my…" he searched for the right term. "One of my colleagues called in a favour. They're the one with the vested interest. And no, I'm not telling you who it is."

"Great," she replied, sardonic. "Well, the only thing you need to know is that I'm not interested in signing the Book of the Beast."

"That's easy, then. Don't sign it." Crowley shrugged. "You won't be a witch, but that's your choice."

"I-" Sabrina caught herself. "It's none of your business."

"From your perspective, maybe not. But, trust me, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be."

She jerked her head back, as if offended. _That seems a bit rich, coming from her,_ Crowley thought wryly.

"In that case," she said, taking a step back. "There's no point in having this conversation."

And with that, she stalked off.

As he heard the door swing shut behind her, Crowley exhaled with feeling. "Teenagers!" he muttered to himself.

Then he began a traipse through Baxter High's rapidly emptying halls. He ignored the few inquisitive looks that were thrown his way; thankfully, Sabrina Spellman was nowhere to be seen.

The carpark, too, was nearly clear. Aziraphale was already waiting in the car, a battered silver Ford Cortina that seemed to be held together by sheer force of will. It was, at best, a painful relic of the late nineties. When Crowley pulled open the door and flopped into the driver's seat, the smell attached to its interior was fusty enough to make him long for his Bentley.

"Well?" Aziraphale asked, tentative. He could tell, of course, that it hadn't gone well. Crowley's general aura made that instantly clear. The question was simply: how bad, exactly, had it been?

“It… escalated quickly.” He grimaced. "I may have offended her."

"Oh?"

He fidgeted, hands coming to rest on the steering wheel. "I, er, don't think I was very persuasive."

"Ah. But - you tried, didn't you? That's all you agreed to do." Aziraphale said, hopefully, eyes widening. "That's it. We can go home."

"Unfortunately, no. It's not that simple." Crowley sighed, hating the way that Aziraphale's face fell. But Lilith's full wrath was not something that he was willing to face, not if he could help it. "No rest for the wicked."

It was a weak joke and they both knew it.

Aziraphale ignored it, frowning lightly. "What's next, then?" he prompted.

Crowley didn't reply. He simply turned the key in the ignition and pointed the rust-bucket of a car in the right direction.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley thoroughly regretted inventing satnav.

Well, he hadn’t _invented_ it, if he was being completely frank, but he _had_ planted the concept in the heads of several different military designers and had later made several choice investments. He felt, therefore, a certain degree of ownership.

That, in turn, lent itself to a deep sense of self-loathing when he actually had to use it for the first time.

The voice was gratingly loud, nominally female, and deeply irritating. "Turn left in five hundred feet."

"If I could, I would!" he retorted, incensed. "But I can't!"

Aziraphale winced and looked out the window. 

Outside, the town of Greendale was sliding past. It was an odd place, with a cutesy, retro-feel highstreet, which contrasted jarringly with the stereotypical suburban houses, all set against the background of a rather dark and sinister forest. 

Unfortunately, it was the fourth time they'd revisited that particular stretch of road, so the view was rapidly losing its charm. They were, it was fair to say, going in circles.

There was an obnoxious beep as they shot past the place that the satnav had wanted them to turn. "Recalculating."

Crowley swore. "I swear," he growled. "You've got one more chance. If you fail to get us there this time…"

Neither the car nor the satnav, to their merit, shirked or shook. _Must be losing my touch_.

Thus, in a silence punctuated by an occasional spurt of muttering from Crowley, they completed a funny loop of bends and a one-way system for the fifth time, and ended up back where they'd started.

"Take the next left," the satnav instructed, as it had done each time.

Crowley, by then quite blind with frustration, was poised to power straight past it. The place must be shielded or disguised somehow, he told himself, given that there was absolutely no sign of the turnoff.

This time around, however, something caught Aziraphale's eye. “Crowley, dear…”

He received a grunt in reply.

"It's just that, well, there's a sign. There." Aziraphale pointed through the windscreen.

Sure enough, there was a sign. It was small and surprisingly discreet, given that it was bright yellow. _SPELLMAN MORTUARY_ , it said in blocky font, surrounded by tasteful curlicues. _FUNERALS, BURIALS & RITES _.

Crowley huffed. "You're kidding me."

"Well," Aziraphale said, with false brightness. He peered through the windscreen, just about making out the looming outline of a house. "I suppose it's rather in-character."

In response, Crowley gave a derisive snort.

Gravel crunching under the Cortina's tyres, they pulled up to the steps that led to the front door. With no great enthusiasm, Crowley killed the engine and the pair of them climbed out of the car.

From there, it was only a few steps to the door. They paused there, both reluctant to knock.

Suddenly, a loud _mrow_ made both of them turn. 

Behind them, settled in the centre of the wooden platform that they were standing on, was a cat. At first glance, it was fairly nondescript, as far as cats go. Its fur was black and lustrous - evidently, it was loved. It was certainly acting like it owned the place.

Aziraphale, perhaps absorbing part of his self-assigned mandate to love and care for all of Her creations, had always had a soft spot for animals. Particularly fluffy ones. Crowley had, on more than one occasion, ridiculed him for it; that fact had yet to stop him from attempting to coddle every cat he met. This one was no exception.

"Well, hello," he cooed, stopping just short of crouching down to stroke the beast. "Aren't you a beautiful-"

The cat hissed, revealing teeth that would have impressed a vampire and startling Aziraphale into taking half a step back. 

The cat eyeballed them, baleful, for several seconds. Then, with a dismissive air, it turned and stalked down the bannister.

Aziraphale, looking a touch heartbroken, pursed his lips. "That doesn't seem good."

"Well," Crowley said, trying to summon some semblance of either enthusiasm or intimidation. "It's too late now."

And with that, before he lost his nerve, he rapped on the door.

* * *

The door swung open, revealing a young man. Well, he appeared young - witches didn't age quite the same way that mortals did, so it was hard to tell.

Upon seeing two strangers, the man's brow creased, guard up. "Can I help you?"

Crowley surveyed him. "Is this the Spellman household?"

His eyes narrowed, sizing them up. "Who's asking?"

"A friend," he replied, internally willing the man to ignore Aziraphale, who was hovering behind him. When the man hesitated, he rolled his eyes. "Are all you Spellmans this suspicious?" he asked, largely rhetorical. "Ask Sabrina. We met earlier."

Something in his face changed. _Of course_ , his eyes seemed to say, both suddenly understanding and infinitely resigned.

Still, all Crowley really cared about was the fact that the man took a step back and waved them in. "Aunties! Sabrina! We've got guests," he called over his shoulder as he did so.

"Thanks," Crowley said as he passed, Aziraphale a step or two behind him.

The interior of the house was impressive: it was undeniably spacious and the stairs were almost intimidating, though that impression was somewhat undercut by the chintzy decor. All in all, it was fairly homely, save for the odd eerie touch. Crowley thought that he could just taste a hint of magic in the air, too, unpleasantly similar to _down there_.

The man, having fastened the door behind them, led them towards the far side of the room and into the kitchen.

The kitchen was a warm, comfy room, replete with weathered cabinets and bathed in an electric yellow light. Crowley wrinkled his nose at the patterned wallpaper, though. _Horribly outdated_ , he thought.

At the room's centre was a table, around which two women were seated. One was Sabrina. One, seated at the head of the table, was a stern-looking woman with impeccably sculpted hair and an air of confidence and power. Not terribly unlike Lilith, Aziraphale noted with alarm.

It was immediately clear that the two women were engaged in a passionate conversation, but they ceased talking as soon as Crowley and Aziraphale entered.

Their guide broke the silence. "Where's Auntie Hilda?"

"Upstairs. She'll be back in a moment," replied the woman at the head of the table. "Now, who's this?"

Before either of them could introduce themselves, Sabrina interjected. “Auntie Zelda,” she said, more than a little perplexed, gesturing towards them. “This is the demon I was talking about.”

“Yes,” Zelda said slowly. “And, unless I’m very much mistaken, an angel.”

Aziraphale shuffled awkwardly. “Yes, well, I - I’m just here as moral support, really.”

Zelda, not most pleased with that answer, shifted her attention to Crowley. "He's an angel," she maintained.

Insouciant, Crowley waved her concerns away with one hand. "Technically."

She continued to appear unimpressed. "And who are you?"

"My name's Crowley."

"Don't be difficult, demon. Who _are_ you?"

Crowley had to consciously tamp down his exasperation - more because of his fear of Lilith (and, for some unknown reason, Zelda herself) than out of politeness or custom.

"I-" Crowley gestured to himself with a dramatic flourish. "I am the serpent of Eden. The tempter. The bringer of knowledge. A servant of Satan. And he-" he indicated Aziraphale. "-is a principality."

The knowledge of his identity did, at least, spark a hint of respect in Zelda's eyes, though her intense suspicion didn't abate. "And why, pray tell, are you-"

And at that point, Hilda walked in. Instantly, her eyes lit up in recognition. “Aziraphale!"

“Hilda!” he exclaimed. “It’s delightful to see you!”

They embraced warmly.

“You know,” he said as they parted. “I never made the connection between ‘Spellman’ and ‘Hilda Spellman.’”

Momentarily, Crowley and Zelda were united in their expressions of scathing disbelief. 

“I know it sounds awfully silly, but it never crossed my mind,” Aziraphale added defensively. “And it was several decades ago.”

Having recovered from her initial shock, Zelda appeared to be moving rapidly towards apoplexy. “Hilda, would you care to explain?”

“Well, Aziraphale and I met in London a few years ago. At an antiques fair,” she explained. “He has the most wonderful bookshop in Soho.”

_A few years ago_ , in this case, meant the nineteen-sixties. Hilda had gotten a sudden rebellious urge and had nipped across the pond for a few months.

Her sister stared at her, incredulous. “And you’re aware that he’s an angel?”

“'Course!” Hilda smiled brightly. “Angels are impossible to miss.”

"Well," Aziraphale acknowledged, a little embarrassed. "Humans don't usually notice."

Despite herself, Zelda laughed. "Well, that's because most mortals lack functioning brains."

"Auntie-" Sabrina protested, cheeks flushed and indignant.

"Now, dears," Hilda interrupted, heading off an argument that had clearly been had before. "What can we do for you?"

Here, Aziraphale deferred to Crowley, looking at him expectantly.

"I've come to talk to Sabrina. It's about-" Crowley paused for effect. " _The Book of the Beast_."

Hearing those words, Sabrina's face, already unsure, clammed up completely. "What?"

"Sabrina," Zelda started, somewhat against her better judgement. "We are witches. We are servants of the Dark Lord, as is this demon. If he has something to say, we ought to listen."

"I think it's better if I speak to Sabrina alone," Crowley added.

"Very well." Shaking her head, as if trying to free herself from a bad dream, Zelda retreated to the living room. "There's an angel in my house."

Ambrose followed her. Hilda lingered a little longer, making two cups of tea.

When she was finished, she held the two steaming teacups aloft and ushered Aziraphale out of the room. "We'll be just next door," she advised them both. "Shout if you need anything."

Uninvited, Crowley took a seat opposite Sabrina.

She exhaled, placed her hands on the table, and faced him squarely. "Alright," she told him. "Let's talk."


	6. Chapter 6

In the next room, Hilda and Aziraphale were perched on a pair of armchairs, sipping their tea. In a way, they were kindred spirits, a fact reflected in the comfortable air between them.

"It's wonderful to see you again, you know," Aziraphale said, fondly recalling their last encounter. "And this tea is perfect! I can't believe you remembered exactly how I take it."

Hilda grinned. "Milk and one and a half teaspoonfuls of sugar."

"Absolutely right, as always."

Hilda's teeth nipped her lip, the relaxed atmosphere growing a little more tense. "Look, if you don't mind me asking-"

"Of course not," he reassured her.

"How, exactly, has all of this come about?" she asked. "I'm glad you're here, but this feels awfully strange."

He nodded in understanding. "I can't tell you very much," he said, frowning. "But we had an unexpected visitor. And this is the result."

"Ah."

"Yes… it seems that the - er -  _ He _ is rather invested in Sabrina's allegiance. I don't know any more than that."

As she raised her cup to her lips, Hilda's brow knitted together in concern. "I see."

The conversation dropped there, tailing into an ever-so-slightly awkward quietness.

It was some minutes later, out of the blue, that Hilda spoke again. "So, you and Crowley… what's going on there?"

It was an abrupt change in something, one that Aziraphale both welcomed and cursed. 

"We've known each other for a long time. Since the beginning, really," he said carefully. "Earth can be quite a lonely place; over the years, we've developed a kind of arrangement."

His response perked Hilda up. Her lips quirked. "An arrangement?"

He shifted a little. "We… check-in with each other, from time to time. Keep an eye on the state of human affairs."

“Yes, but are you two-” Hilda wiggled her head. “You know.”

It took Aziraphale a moment to catch up with her meaning. “Oh, good gracious, no!” he spluttered, attempting to hide his reddening cheeks by sipping his tea. “That would be rather improper.”

 

* * *

Unfortunately, the situation in the kitchen was not as amicable.

Sabrina brought her hand down on the table, hard, to emphasise her point. "Frankly, I'm not interested in signing away my free will."

They'd only been there for ten minutes, but their conversation had already become circular.

Crowley almost snarled in frustration, temper rapidly fraying. He saw her point, absolutely, could relate to it far more than he let on. "It's a compromise, that's all. Power, in exchange for a promise. One that may not even be called upon."

"Even if I were to accept that, why would I want to reject everything that's mortal and alive and  _ good _ ?"

"Because it's not that clear-cut! Heaven and Hell aren't solidly good and evil!" he fired back, voice nearing a shout.

"What?" she said, voice dropping in volume. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous." Crowley was adamant, lowering his tone to match hers. "As the world's leading authority on grey morality, I can assure you that good and evil are far more complicated than that."

She leaned backwards, folding her arms. "Explain."

"I'm here with an angel, for Satan's sake." When she looked unpersuaded, he sighed. "Look. You're young. You need to work this out for yourself. But whatever you do, don't make the mistake of assuming that Heaven and Hell's propaganda is anywhere near accurate."

"Easier said than done."

"Maybe. But it's your life - make want you want of it."

With that, he stood, pushing his chair back with a screech. From the pocket of his jacket, he produced and, somewhat unwillingly, handed over a neat, embossed business card:  _ A. Z. Fell and Co. _

"If you ever need it," he informed her.

She studied it for a moment, turning it over in her hand; by the time she looked up, he was already out of the room. Deep in thought, she made her way to the next room.

"How did it go?" Hilda asked as she entered.

"Fine, fine," Sabrina said absently. She sank down onto an armchair, diagonally across from Aziraphale.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he ventured, noting the bright flush on her cheeks.

"I'm confused," she stated. "How are the two of you here? Without killing each other, I mean."

"It's hard to hate someone you've known for six thousand years, whatever the backstory," he said, as if the matter were quite simple.

"So, you-" Sabrina waved her hands around. "Work together? Even though you're on different sides."

"From time to time," he conceded, skirting the full truth. "When it's absolutely necessary. It's not something that upstairs are very keen on."

"But you're friends," she persisted.

"Yes, well." Aziraphale looked away, flustered. "I - I suppose that, somewhere along the way, we decided that our hereditary rivalry wasn't relevant. Not really."

"Huh." Sabrina made a small noise as she leaned back, pensive. The whirring of her brain was practically audible.

The floor creaked as Ambrose walked in, making a beeline for the arm of Sabrina's chair. Once he was comfortable perched, Hilda prompted him, "Where's Zelda? And Crowley?"

"Upstairs, on the landing. I'm not sure how they got there."

She winced. "Together? That can't be going well."

"Oh, they're getting on quite well, actually," Ambrose said, amused. "Aunt Zelda's talking about her wall of curse-shoes and Crowley's claiming to have invented stilettos."

In unison, Aziraphale and Hilda shook their heads, a mixture of fondness and disbelief.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until much later, when they were driving away, car laden with Hilda's baked goods, that Aziraphale was able to speak to Crowley about the whole situation.

"So?" he asked. "What did she say? How did she react?"

With that small push, Crowley began to relate his conversation with Sabrina, repeating their exchanges almost word-for-word. There was a sense that he was both uncontent and quietly proud of what he'd tried to do.

When he'd concluded, Aziraphale said, quite honestly, "If anything, dear, you made her  _ more _ confused."

Crowley shrugged. "Probably. But that's not my problem anymore."

"I hope it helped her," Aziraphale continued, taking on a more upbeat tone. "At least her eyes are more open, now."

"Much good it'll do."

"Don't be so pessimistic," he scolded, defending Crowley from his own self-criticism. "The smallest thing can make a difference."

As he said it, he realised that they were back on Greendale's highstreet; once again, they'd gotten to the point where they were driving in circles.

"Do you want me to put the satnav on?" Aziraphale suggested, praying to be spared another round of rants and circuits.

Crowley, it seemed, had also remember their earlier tribulations. "To Hell with satnavs," he declared.

And with a sudden jolt and a small demonic miracle, they were back on the roads of London, rain drumming on the roof.

"Tea at mine?" Aziraphale offered when he'd recovered from the shock, which took him longer than he'd care to admit. "I'm not sure what time of day it is, but it's never the wrong time for tea."

Pleased, and feeling liberated from his task, Crowley nodded. "Certainly, angel."


End file.
